Phoenix
by Imagine Eternity
Summary: To the world, he had died with his ship. He did not want to survive. But he did.    To the world, she had died with her gutter-rat. She promised him she would survive. And she did. But there was one more life to save...
1. Phoenix Part 1

This story is a work of fiction based on the movie version of _Titanic_ and the movie representations of several genuine historical figures. This story is in no way representative of the personalities or actions of the real people upon whom the characters were based (in particular Thomas Andrews and Herbert Lightoller) or anyone connected with them, and is in no way intended to cause offence or misrepresentation. The other characters belong to 20th Century Fox and Paramount Pictures, except Julia and Harry, who are my own.

**Phoenix**

Rose's fingers tightened around the strange, heavy thing she held in her hand, unable to look away from its iridescence in the gently falling rain, spattering its surface like a thousand mirrors.

Given the horrors she had experienced, it somehow seemed odd to her that she should now be thinking more clearly than she ever had in her life. She had experienced something so traumatic, so tragic, so horrific, she knew that for many it would feel like the end. Yet all she felt now was the realisation that the unhappy, monotonous existence she would have had married to Cal was now a fading dream; a nightmare which would now never come true. Her entire mapped future gone in an instant; her whole purpose in life altered forever.

Jack seemed like a dream. She had known him for a matter of days; this time two days ago they had not even shared their first kiss. Perhaps he was an angel, she thought … an angel who danced and sketched his way into her life, taught her how to live; how to love … and then was gone. She would love him until the day she died; there was no doubt in her mind about that. She would grieve later, when the numbness wore off, she knew that. She would cry, she would wake in the night still feeling him in her arms; his fingers entwined with hers … yes, she had lost the man she would gladly have given herself to for eternity.

But he _was_ with her for eternity. Nothing would ever part them now. He was safe in a place where no poverty, pain or sorrow would ever reach him. And as long as her promise to him lived, she would go on living … and he would live in her. It seemed quite straightforward when thought of like that.

She didn't have an idea where she would go or what she would do; where she would sleep after they docked in New York tomorrow or how her life would continue after today, though she did not feel worried. After all that had happened, nothing seemed particularly daunting any more.

She had seen her mother and Cal since boarding the Carpathia, but had taken care not to be noticed by them. From now on, she must be dead to them; there was no other way. She had also seen Molly Brown, Madeleine Astor, Mr Guggenheim's mistress, Madame Aubert. Also, perhaps unsurprisingly, Mr Ismay, both of the Duff-Gordons, Colonel Gracie … rank, it seemed had its advantages.

She could not regret their survival, even Cal's. Any lives saved must surely be something to be thankful for, yet at the same time, what right had they to live when so many others had not, simply because of their rank or wealth? She wondered how many of those happy, welcoming, lively Irish third-class passengers at the party had survived. Probably very few. So far she had seen no third-class survivors she recognised. Jack's friends Fabrizio and Tommy … no sign. The sweet little girl, Cora, whom Jack had danced with; her father Bert … not there. There were, of course, others missing from what had, two nights ago, been her social circle. Captain Smith, it seemed, had not been saved, nor J.J. Astor, Mr Andrews, Mr Guggenheim, Cal's valet Lovejoy …

She had had so much more in common with what Cal would have called 'scum'. Had he only opened his eyes, he would have seen happy, fun-loving, free-spirited people making so much more of their lives than he did. Certainly there were those within her circle whom she had liked to a degree; Madeleine Astor had a slightly rebellious streak that Rose approved of; Molly Brown was obviously well grounded and not one to stand for snobbery; Mr Andrews was extremely kind and Rose had felt something of an affinity with him. The unbearable agony she had seen in his eyes as he stood with corpse-like stillness beside the clock, watching his own creation die around him, still haunted her.

She drew a deep breath, trying not to think too much. At the moment, that was the best defence she had. She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips; they felt cracked. An effect of the salt water, she supposed. Eating and drinking had seemed unimportant, but now her body's basic needs were beginning to come back to her and she was, she realised, incredibly thirsty.

She walked slowly across the deck, glancing around at the scattered groups of dishevelled people; mostly women and children, many with blankets draped around their shoulders. Some looked as numb as she felt; some cried openly; some seemed to be carrying on as if nothing had happened, on auto-pilot, looking after their families; in some cases looking after those whose families were gone forever. Her family, too, was gone forever, though by her own choice, she thought suddenly with a pang of guilt. So many among her were wishing with everything in them that their fathers, mothers, children, friends could be with them again … her mother and fiancé had lived and it would be so easy to walk up to them and be greeted with open arms and tears of relief. But it could not be. For Jack, but more importantly for herself, it could not be.

Upon reaching the door, her vision blurred slightly. She shook her head to clear it, then made to push the door open, but it seemed unnaturally heavy; all her strength seemed to be deserting her. Her mind suddenly snapped back to a locked gate; Jack trying to force it, water rising fiercely around them, death possibly mere seconds away …

A man standing inside nearby moved to pull the door for her, but as she stepped inside, the room began to blur in front of her; she suddenly became aware that she was breathing too quickly.

Total blackness …no air, surrounded by flailing limbs, grasping hopelessly for Jack's hand …

Everything was going dark around the edges; it was too much …

As she faltered, the man who had opened the door moved swiftly beside her and caught her before she could fall. Then she could hear a woman's voice asking if she was all right, but far away, hazy ... Then more movement; she felt weightless, like she was being carried, as if in a dream … she was so tired, no strength left …

"Here," the nurse said, offering Rose a large glass of water. "Small sips at first, now."

Rose awkwardly levered herself up on one elbow and looked groggily around. She was lying on a narrow, rather hard bed in what was obviously the Carpathia's medical bay. She could see three curtained-off cubicles opposite her own, each with a mint-green and white striped curtain around it, and a sink against the far left hand wall. The main door must be around the opposite corner where she couldn't see.

"Thank you," Rose murmured, taking the glass. Her hands trembled as she gripped it; she felt shivery and was aware of perspiration on her face. "I think I just needed a drink." She sipped rapidly at the cool, pure water, it made quite a difference. "That's better, thank you."

"Don't you worry," the nurse said, gently. "Nothing to be ashamed of; you've been through enough." You have a rest here and I'll get you some more water if you finish that. I'll be back soon.

"Thank you," Rose said again, as the nurse left the cubicle and pulled the curtain across. She took a few more sips of water, closing her eyes as the refreshing liquid cooled her burning lips and cleansed her throat. A few more sips and it was gone.

Another glass was definitely needed. The nurse could be a while, and obviously had more important things to do. The sink was in sight; the room had stopped moving; she was fairly sure she wouldn't faint again, as long as she went slowly.

She sat up fully now, and swung her legs off the bed, planting her feet on the floor. She did feel a little nauseous, but surely all the more reason to refill her glass with water. Just give it a moment, she thought. Breathe. Breathe.

She turned her head slightly as she heard a male voice from somewhere to the left, speaking with a slight northern English accent, obviously educated. "It'll need an X-ray, of course, to determine the extent of the damage. I would say it looks like a fairly clean break, though; so hopefully it will heal nicely. Apart from that, the damage to your shoulder seems fairly superficial, and none of the cuts and bruises should cause you any long term damage. As I say, there will be an ambulance on standby as soon as the ship docks.

She heard a soft, very quiet, "Thank you," in response, which struck Rose with the faintest trace of familiarity. It barely registered; the voice had been so quiet it could have been anyone's, there was just something …

She heard a curtain being opened, then closed, then the doctor walking past her cubicle to speak with a nurse. "I'm still concerned about Emily Taylor," he said quietly but clearly, "the hypothermia has taken its toll and in a child of six, well, she could deteriorate at any time. Mrs Pryor's condition has stabilised, but given her age and medical history, a more severe attack is not out of the question. I've just reassessed Mr Jenkins on the end there; he still seems in deep shock, but his injuries are not life threatening. Right tibia-fibula fracture, dislocated shoulder now replaced, cuts and bruises … so those three are my priority for removal to hospital as soon as we dock."

Jenkins. The name didn't ring a bell. He must just have a familiar sounding voice. Cautiously, Rose stood. She kept a hand on the bed to steady herself until she reached the curtain, then opened it slightly and glanced out. The doctor and cockney nurse had obviously just left the room and there was no sign of the other nurse. Still gripping the glass with slightly trembling fingers, Rose stepped out into the room and walked towards the sink. She felt a little more stable now; one more long drink and she would feel much better.

She reached the sink, refilled the glass and took several sips, breathing slowly. She looked up into the mirror, which was set at eye level. She saw a mass of matted, damp red hair surrounding an ashen face which looked more like a mask; its cheeks and forehead shining slightly, giving it an almost porcelain-like glimmer. The eyes, though, were alive; despite their owner's bedraggled appearance, they glowed with fierce determination which said _I am alive_. What would Mother say if she saw me looking like this, she mused.

She glanced to the left; the curtain around the end cubicle had not been fully closed and out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a slight movement. A man lay on the bed inside, propped up on several pillows, his face turned almost completely away from her. He was dressed in an off-white medical gown, his right leg immobilised in a long splint; his left arm in a sling across his chest and a recently stitched gash on the right side of his forehead.

Something made her take a tentative step closer and glance around the side of the curtain for a closer look. He appeared to be breathing deeply and evenly, and though his position indicated that he might be asleep, for some reason he did not seem restful; in fact something suggested that if Rose could see his face, his eyes would be open and troubled. Unsurprising really, she thought, whoever he was.

Perhaps she exhaled audibly, or perhaps he had merely sensed her presence. The man raised his head slightly, then slowly turned it to face her, obviously expecting to see a doctor or nurse. His face looked like that of a condemned man; his half-closed eyes almost dead, as if his soul were gone; as if every reason for his existence had been drained from him; as if he silently longed for death.

Suddenly, in a moment of stark realisation, she knew why.

What little colour there was in Rose's cheeks left them. The half-full glass of water dropped to the floor and shattered. She drew a short, sharp gasp and her hands flew to her mouth in stunned disbelief.

It was Thomas Andrews.


	2. Phoenix Part 2

It was not possible, yet it was. He could not have survived, yet he had. He could not be there in front of her, alive and breathing, yet he was.

"My God," she breathed in no more than a whisper.

"Rose," he murmured, barely audibly.

She took a trembling step towards him, ignoring the broken glass on the floor. She moved silently beside him, her eyes locked on his, her mouth still open slightly in shock.

"Mr Andrews," she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. "How …? I don't … I thought … How?"

His eyes were moist as he weakly lifted raised his hand to touch her cheek. An expression of tragic relief passed across his tired face.

"Young Rose," he said softly. "I'm so glad … I thought it was too late for you."

"We … we didn't get to a boat," she muttered. "I was just … lucky." She reached for his hand and took it in both of her own. He gave a slight squeeze.

"Did Jack …?"

Feeling, for the first time, tears sting the backs of her eyes, Rose lowered her eyes and shook her head. Nobody else would have bothered to ask after him.

"We were together," she said softly, swallowing hard. "in the water. He just fell asleep. Holding my hand." She looked down at her hands now encasing Andrews'. Suddenly it seemed too real. Jack had been real. The pain was real.

"I'm so sorry."

Rose looked up to see his eyes swimming with tears, one brimming over and flowing in a crooked stream down his cheek. She held tightly onto his hand, screwing her eyes shut as her own tears threatened to overwhelm her. Somehow, having one person about whom she cared and had believed to be dead returned to her was more painful than having none at all.

"If I could have …" Andrews whispered, "If I could have … in his place … in anyone's place … I'm so sorry …" His voice cracked, both his cheeks now streaked with cascading tears. "I didn't intend to survive," he said in a hollow voice. "I didn't want to survive. I should have died. I meant to die."

"Don't say that," Rose burst out, slightly louder than she intended to. She dropped her voice again. "You didn't deserve to die any more than Jack did. Any more than anyone did. I'm glad that you're alive, Mr Andrews."

Andrews shook his head, unable to meet Rose's eyes. "I don't deserve your kindness, Rose. In case you've forgotten, I built that ship. That 'unsinkable' ship. Didn't think for a moment that I was tempting fate by calling it that. Stupid. So, so stupid. Enough lifeboats for less than half the passengers. That was my doing, Rose. I killed all those people. I'm no better than a murderer." He released his hand from hers and roughly wiped his eyes with the back of it.

"It wasn't your fault," said Rose, steadily. "You said it yourself, you wanted those extra lifeboats but you were outvoted."

"It was my ship! I could have insisted! If I had absolutely insisted I could have …"

"Don't do this to yourself. There's been enough suffering already."

Andrews drew a breath and met Rose's stare as if about to say something more, but faltered and released it slowly, looking away from her. Finally, he glanced up at her again and shook his head.

"There is nothing left for me now, Rose," he said quietly. "I wanted to be allowed to die with my ship. Captain Smith got that final dignity, I've been told. It should have been the same for me."

Rose paused. Andrews obviously meant every word he said. So ironic, she thought, that so many people who had wanted so desperately to live had not, when here was a man who had wanted nothing more than to die and yet, somehow, had lived. She understood his guilt; it was clear why he felt such responsibility, but she also knew with every ounce of her being that he had believed the ship to be safe, the lifeboats to be sufficient; he had had absolute faith in it and would not have put anyone at risk if he had been in any doubt. He was a good man; she could not believe that anyone who had met him could think otherwise.

"It was an accident, Mr Andrews," Rose said quietly. "A freak accident. Nobody could have predicted that an iceberg of that size could have been in that one spot at that exact time. You couldn't have foreseen it."

Andrews said nothing; he merely turned away, gazing unfocusedly at the floor through half-closed eyes. There was clearly no fight left in him. It frightened Rose more than she would have expected, to see him like this. While always quietly spoken and modest, in the little time she had known him he had been alert, aware, the quiet observer who noticed everything. He had a spark, a twinkle in his blue eyes; she had not forgotten his restrained smirk and suppressed laugh when she had mentioned Dr Freud's theories about the male preoccupation with size to Mr Ismay.

There was no spark now. His previously blue eyes looked grey; he seemed to have aged unrecognisably. Rose wanted him to fight, to dust himself off and move forward in the same way that she must … but she had never seen any person look so utterly defeated. The idea of him fighting anything seemed impossible. And yet he must have somehow; the fact that he was here now must mean something.

"Mr Andrews?" said Rose, softly. She had to get him talking, she just had to.

His head turned slightly, his eyes lifted fractionally.

"What happened? How were you saved?"

Andrews exhaled with effort. He blinked, then shook his head.

"I'm trying not to think about it."

"You have to think about it," said Rose, quietly but firmly. "You lived. I don't know how, but there has to be a reason for that. I survived; Jack was my reason. What was yours?"

"I told you, I didn't want to live," Andrews hissed, almost angrily. "I had no reason, but I didn't have the choice; it was taken from me."

"How? You gave me your life jacket." She paused. "By doing that, you actually saved my life."

That thought hadn't dawned on her before now. But it was true; when the ship's suction had pulled her under, she might not have reached the surface in time without the life jacket. She might not have been buoyant enough to surface again after that desperate man had clung to her, pushing her under in an effort to keep himself afloat.

Rose reached for a folding chair which stood propped against the wall, unfolded it and set it beside the bed, sitting lightly on its edge. When she looked to him again, his anger had abated.

"That was, at least, one thing I did get right," he said softly. "God knows you deserved a second chance at life. Oh, Rose, I'm sorry, I haven't asked … did your mother …?"

"She was saved," said Rose, airily. "And Molly Brown, Madeleine Astor, the Countess of Rothes, Mr and Mrs Duff-Gordon, Madame Aubert, Colonel Gracie …" she ran through the list on auto-pilot. "And Cal, of course."

"I knew about Cal and Colonel Gracie," said Andrews, giving a small nod. "I heard that Mr Astor and Mr Guggenheim were lost though …what about Mr Ismay, do you know?"

"He's alive," said Rose, "though you wouldn't think so to look at him. I think perhaps …" she paused for a moment. "I think perhaps his instinct to survive overruled everything else at the time, yet now he may be wondering if he made the right decision. I don't know how he got onto a boat, but he did." She paused again. "Is that what happened to you?"

Andrews fixed Rose with a steady gaze. She knew he could see she was not going to give up. He sighed, and shifted uncomfortably, sitting up a little and turning towards her.

"You really want to know." It was a statement, not a question. Rose knew that, but nodded anyway.

"I didn't save myself," he said, slowly and clearly, which made it clear to Rose that he wanted this, above all else, to be known. "Please believe me when I say that I had accepted the fact that I was going to die and I welcomed it. Nothing else would make the pain stop."

"You looked like you were in another world," Rose said quietly. "That last time I saw you, by the clock in the smoking room. You seemed totally calm."

"I was," Andrews inclined his head. "I must have been in shock – I think perhaps I still am – but by that time, I knew that … I _believed_ that all hope was lost. Soon it would be over and there would be no more suffering, for myself or anyone else. It felt like a dream, a waking dream, when in the middle of it all you become aware that it's a dream and know that nothing can hurt you and it'll soon be nothing more than a memory. That's what it felt like."

Rose edged her chair forward slightly, to rest her elbows on the side of the bed beside him.

"When you and Jack passed by me in the smoking room, I could barely think at all any more. I do remember realising that there would be no boats left by then, and that you and he … all I could think was that at least you were with someone you obviously loved and would be with him 'til the last."

He paused for a moment. "I do remember thinking that you had probably lived more in the last couple of days than you ever had before. I knew the moment I met you that you had been born into the wrong world."

Rose smiled sadly. She knew he had understood.

"After you'd gone, I must have slipped back into a daze … I remember adjusting the clock; it was half a minute fast." He closed his eyes for a moment, evidently still seeing it all clearly in his mind, then continued steadily.

"It wasn't long before the angle of the floor was becoming too steep for me to stand where I was any longer," he said. I didn't move out into the hall, I wanted to be alone in my final moments, so I started to move further down the room … it would at least make the end come faster. The far end was already filling with water and many of the tables and chairs had already fallen because of the incline. I was moving down the far wall, holding onto the wall for support as I went, but when I was, I suppose, twenty feet from the end of the room, the ship lurched suddenly and I fell, a sort of stumbling fall, I suppose, forwards, into the furniture piling in the water."

He gave an involuntary shudder, the memory obviously still terrifyingly vivid. Now he had begun though, it seemed the details could not come fast enough.

"I felt the cold shock of the water before anything else; it was about knee-height to stand in, I suppose, had I been able to stand, but then the pain hit me as well. I don't know how it happened, I probably fell awkwardly, but I realised my leg was broken. I felt dizzy; the pain was blinding, the water was so cold … I remember wishing that dying didn't have to be so painful, but at the same time thinking it was no more than I deserved …"

His voice cracked; he put a hand to his forehead as his eyes moistened once more.

"Take your time," Rose said softly.

Andrews breathed slowly for a few moments, his eyes closed. Finally they opened, resignedly.

"I think I must have passed out for a moment," he continued quietly but evenly. "The water had risen and was almost up to my shoulders by the time I came to; then suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass. It was the window just a couple of feet from me; it blew out. It was a full-length window and it shattered completely, so the water from inside the room was sucked out again, along with much of the furniture and myself. The promenade was also almost underwater by then, so the current pulled me out of the room, then down, then off the ship completely. There was a lifeboat about thirty feet away, Collapsible B, it hadn't been launched properly; people were still clinging to its sides and climbing in; the last of the ropes had just been cut free."

Rose saw the events unfolding in her mind's eye as he described them. It was so like him to remember everything in such detail, even in such horrific circumstances.

"I think at that point my body had gone into shock as well as my mind," he said, shaking his head. "I don't remember feeling much pain, even from the chill of the water. I remember something getting tangled around my arm and then being wrenched free by a wave; again, that's probably what dislocated my shoulder, but it was like I'd had enough; my body was refusing to feel any more. I do remember thinking this was the end and feeling almost peaceful, like this was my natural conclusion. I was ready to die," he said, almost desperately.

"But that final mercy was taken from me," he continued; a touch of bitterness now in his voice. "I don't remember its approach, but suddenly there was an arm around me, keeping me from going under, and a man shouting at me to 'stay with him'. He was in the water with me, holding me up and calling for others to help pull me into the boat. It was Officer Lightoller, whom only an hour or so before I had shouted at for not filling the lifeboats to capacity. I tried to say no, I asked him to let me die, but by then I was too weak to fight him off or do anything of my own accord. Then more arms lifted me into the boat; I think I was laid across people's laps, I don't really know; I was insensible. Then Lightoller was beside me again, and the boat was moving away from the ship … I heard mainly male voices; I don't think there were many women in the boat. After that it all went dark."

Andrews paused. "I remember opening my eyes again, I don't know how much later, and finding that I was covered with other people's jackets and coats; only half of my face was uncovered. I felt the cold then. I was numb, couldn't really feel anything else except cold. Lightoller was still there, watching over me. The boat had become badly waterlogged; some people were having to stand. I couldn't see the faces any of the other passengers in the boat though; mainly because Lightoller was leaning so closely over me; I presume trying to keep me from succumbing to hypothermia. I've heard since that one of the men had already died and he didn't want to lose another. In truth I remember being thankful that I was most likely unrecognisable to anyone but him."

Rose thought for a moment. "I thought … I remember seeing Officer Lightoller; his boat was picked up just after ours. Colonel Gracie and Cal were on that boat."

"I know," Andrews nodded ruefully. "That is, I knew shortly afterward, I didn't at the time. They didn't know it was me and Lightoller was … how shall we put it, discreet. He knew who I was but he didn't show it; he didn't use my name at all."

"Do you think that was deliberate?" asked Rose.

"It was," said Andrews. "He gave them my name as a Mr Thomas Jenkins when I was brought aboard … he told me later it was the name of a boy he'd known at school; the first name that came into his mind. He's been in to see me already, a few hours ago. He said …"

Rose waited.

"He said," Andrews concluded, with a sigh, "that the truth was not his to disclose, and that in the circumstances, I could probably do with a little anonymity until I was ready. He confirmed that none of the other passengers in the lifeboat had recognised me, looking the way I did and underneath all the coats and jackets he had used to keep me warm. And for that," he concluded, "I know I should be grateful. I will be blamed … I should be blamed. But nobody could ever blame me as much as I blame myself. Hence why, you see, Rose, dying out there would have been far more preferable to what I must now face. As I say, I should be grateful to Lightoller but I can't be, do you understand, Rose? He denied me my right to die; he took that choice away from me. It should have been so easy. Now it is … a little more difficult."

Rose looked up sharply. "What do you mean? What do you mean, 'a little more difficult'?"

Andrews looked away, shaking his head. "I have no reasons left to live, Rose," he said quietly. "And as such I have no plans to … to continue to do so any longer than I must."


	3. Phoenix Part 3

"You can't think like that," said Rose, a trace of desperation in her voice. "You're still in shock, you're not thinking straight …"

"That's right," said Andrews, firmly. "So imagine, if you can, just how much worse it will be when the shock wears off and I _am_ thinking clearly."

"What about your wife?" Rose said suddenly, grasping for a different argument. You have children, don't you? For them, at least …"

Andrews gave a short, humourless laugh. "A marriage as happy as the one you were destined for, I believe." When Rose did not speak, he continued. "A marriage which, unbeknown to almost everyone was due to end very shortly. A wife who … how shall I put it, had very little regard for the sanctity of marriage. A child which was not mine, by her own blatant admittance, and whom I have been permitted to have virtually no part in her upbringing, for that reason."

Rose sighed in the increasing feeling of despair. After all that Andrews had told her, she couldn't help but begin to understand why his thoughts were so firmly fixed to the concept that he had nothing left to live for. Nothing but questions, blame, the label of being a failure, responsible for the biggest maritime disaster anyone had ever heard of … he didn't deserve it, he didn't deserve any of it, but even she could see that it was the way it would almost certainly be.

Her silence seemed to have signalled her defeat, for Andrews looked up slightly, met her eye and gave a small, sad nod as he squeezed her hand. "I must ask you just one last service Rose. Please keep it to yourself that I survived the sinking. I don't like to ask you to lie for me, but I know you understand why. Please don't tell your mother or Cal, or any of the others."

A tiny light flickered somewhere in Rose's mind.

"I can assure you I won't say anything," she began slowly. "But that's because I won't be speaking to them at all. They don't know."

"Know what?" Andrews looked confused. Then, when Rose did not speak but merely raised an eyebrow slightly, his expression changed suddenly. "You mean …" he hesitated, "You mean they think …"

"Yes," said Rose, simply. "Rose DeWitt Bukater is not on the list of those saved from the sinking. Just as Thomas Andrews is not."

Andrews looked quite shocked, but after a few moments of absorption, his expression softened. "I suppose … I suppose I can hardly blame you, Rose, but … truly, does nobody know?"

"Nobody," Rose replied. "I took Jack's name; I gave them my name as Rose Dawson. I doubt anyone's going to waste much energy trying to work out why there was no Rose Dawson on the original passenger list, and even if they do, I'll have disappeared by then."

Andrews studied Rose with an expression of mingled admiration and disbelief. "What will you do?" he asked eventually. "Where will you go, how will you survive?"

"I don't know yet," said Rose, truthfully. "But I will. If the last few days have taught me anything, it's that I was, as you said just now, born into the wrong world. Is it such a terrible thing to say that I believe I can cope perfectly well with never seeing my mother again? That I can walk away from my life as it was, with no desire to look back? The truth is I don't care if it _is_ a terrible thing. I have to live my life for me now, not them. To make each day count, do you remember that?"

Andrews stared at Rose, his expression unfathomable.

"Do you know how Jack and I met?" she continued after a moment. "When the story was that I nearly fell overboard and he saved me, that was no accident. I was about to jump, Mr Andrews; I was seriously considering ending my own life, right then, right there; that's how desperate I felt. But someone was there to pull me back and convince me that however bad, more than bad, however unbearable my life was at that moment, it was still worth living if I wanted it badly enough and was prepared to go against the standards and rules I'd been brought up with and make it so. It wasn't easy. I knew that if I admitted, to myself and everyone around me, that I hated the world I lived in, that I couldn't stand the sight of my fiancé, that almost every person I knew was a shallow, self-centred, vapid being with no individuality or ambition … can you imagine the kind of reaction that would have got? But I was going to do it, because I knew it was right and that I deserved a second chance at life. When the ship docked in New York, I was going to say a short goodbye to them and leave with Jack. As it is, I don't have to make any public declarations. What's happened has taken that responsibility off my shoulders. It's made it easier; not so much for myself, but probably for them at least. Far more honourable for Mother and Cal to be able to tell everyone that their daughter and fiancée died tragically in the Titanic disaster, rather than admitting that she couldn't stand them any longer and escaped to made a new life for herself as far away from them as possible. No. I will just disappear, never to be heard of again. I think it's an arrangement that will suit both parties very well."

Andrews had not taken his eyes from Rose's while she spoke. Now he shook his head sadly, but not admonishingly. "I have to admit, Rose, while I'm sure I should tell you what a silly girl you're being and that you must go back to your family immediately … I cannot. You will survive, I know you will. You'll more than survive; you'll live, really live. For both you and Jack," he added. "He'll always be with you."

"Yes," Rose replied quietly. "Always. But there was a point to my telling you all that."

Andrews looked quizzical.

"To the world, Rose DeWitt Bukater and Thomas Andrews both died on the Titanic yesterday," she said, slowly and concisely. "Nobody who knew them will ever see them again. And the mysterious but, I suspect, largely unimportant Rose Dawson and Thomas Jenkins will also shortly have disappeared."

She paused, looking at him intently. She had built to this moment; this was the one and only chance she had to convince him. Andrews looked like he was fighting some deep internal struggle, which had to be an improvement from what he had revealed his intentions to be thus far. There was a fight left in there, somewhere deep inside, she just knew there was.

"Disappear with me," said Rose. "Yes, since you've put it so well, I'll admit that your life as it stands right now is probably not worth living. So start a new one. Away from here, away from everything you've ever known. Yes, it'll be difficult, but I'm going to do it, so why can't you? You have nothing left to lose, Mr Andrews," she said slowly, taking his hand again and leaning close towards him. "If, in a year's time, you still feel the same as you do now, well, then if you want to throw your life away, then you'll still have that choice. But at least try. If you do feel guilty for all those who died, then don't surrender your own life without a fight. Enough lives have been lost already, Mr Andrews. It would be an insult to their memory to give up on your own without at least trying to make a go of it."

Andrews looked almost panicked, he was taking in short, shallow breaths and seemed to be searching desperately for the right words with which to construct a reply.

"Rose ..." he muttered, shaking his head in agitation, "Rose, you don't … it's not that easy, Rose. Even if I wanted to …" he gestured to his immobilised leg and heavily bandaged arm. "I can't just run away. I might well be recognised once I'm in hospital, surely you can see that?"

The fact that he had not refused outright was all the encouragement Rose needed.

"Of course you can't disappear straight away. But there are ways to go un-noticed. Say you're having dreadful headaches in strong light and need to keep your eyes covered when you're taken off the ship, or say you can't bear to look at the sea. I'll stay with you and keep your face hidden. Looking like this nobody will likely recognise me; but I can put my hair up or wear glasses to make sure. Later, I can get you transferred to another hospital. I'll pose as your daughter, niece, wife even, whatever it takes, and get you as far away as possible from people who could recognise you. I'll find work and a room close by, while you recuperate, then when you're well enough we'll go, far away, and start again. You're right when you say it won't be easy. I'll admit I'm a little afraid. But I also believe that I would be a little less afraid if I wasn't alone."

Andrews gave a long, slow sigh, obviously trying to make sense of what had fast become the most important decision of his life. His gaze drifted to the curtain, the ceiling, the floor … then finally and somewhat reluctantly in Rose's direction.

"The thing is …" he began, his voice wavering, "The thing is, Rose … I just don't know if … if I can ever, ever even begin to forgive myself."

Rose gave a small, non-committal gesture. "I guess that'll be for you to discover in time," she said gently. "But for what it's worth, Mr Andrews, I lost the one and only person I had ever truly loved when Titanic sank. And while I maintain that what happened was not your fault; yes, if you insist, I'll acknowledge that by way of designing the ship, you played a part in that." She lowered her voice and looked directly into his eyes. "But_ I_ forgive you. Surely that's a start?"

A single tear meandered slowly down Andrews' cheek. After a moment, trembling slightly, he tentatively reached forward and took one of Rose's hands in his own; she encased it with her other. Andrews studied their interlocked fingers for several moments, then his gaze slowly drifted upwards, the tiniest hint of light dawning in his eyes as they focused on Rose's.

He took a deep breath, released it slowly, and smiled.


	4. Phoenix: Epilogue

_Seven years later_

In the warm glow of the setting sun, along a tree-lined street of a suburban California town, a couple strolled leisurely, hand in hand. He was tall and slim with coffee-coloured hair and bright green, smiling eyes as he glanced lovingly at his wife. She smiled serenely back; her other hand resting lightly on her pregnant stomach, showing clearly under a long summer dress.

"I can feel him moving again," she said, grinning.

"How can you be so sure it's a 'he'?" her husband asked, playfully raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, I'm sure of it," she replied. "We've got a soccer player in here for sure."

"Well, I guess you can tell better than I can," he conceded, squeezing her hand. "It just amazes me that a little … _our_ little person is in there, whatever it is."

"I know," she said, running her hand over the bump. "I can't wait to meet him. Or her," she added, noticing her husband's pout.

They turned off the street and walked up the path of a large, detached house with an apple tree on the front lawn and rose bushes either side of the door. The man reached inside his coat pocket and adjusted something as his wife rang the doorbell.

After a moment, the door was opened by a woman in her early forties with long, wavy brown hair, a long blue dress and a warm, open smile.

"Rose, Harry," she beamed, "come on in. He's nearly ready; I will never understand how a man can take so long to decide which tie goes with which suit!"

Rose laughed. "Always the perfectionist. He'll never change, Julia, I've warned you!"

"You know I wouldn't have him any other way," Julia smiled. "They're here, darling!" she called up the stairs.

"I know, I'm sorry, just coming," a voice replied from the top of the stairs. "The striped one had cat hairs all over it; I think Lucy's been using it as bedding again." He hurried down the stairs to join them, smiling broadly as he shook Harry's hand, then carefully hugged Rose sideways, taking care to avoid colliding with her stomach.

"Seems gets bigger every day, doesn't he?" Rose laughed. "Still, only two months to go and he'll be on the outside. Much more comfortable."

"Definitely," Julia smiled as her husband put his arm around her. "Ready to go, then?"

"All set," Harry replied. "But," he added, reaching inside his jacket and drawing out a bottle of champagne, "before we go, I believe a toast is in order?"

"Oh, Harry, you shouldn't have," Julie chided. "Wait a second, I'll grab some glasses."

"I'll give you a hand," Harry volunteered, and followed Julia through the hall and into the kitchen. Her husband gazed fondly after her, then looked back to Rose.

"I'm so happy for you, Rose," he said tenderly. "I know I say it all the time, but I really am. I can honestly say I never dreamed that things would turn out this way. With us both here, living lives we love and so …so happy."

From the kitchen there came the gentle 'pop' of a cork leaving a bottle.

"Things do work out," Rose replied, smiling softly. "If you let them. That's what we did. We made this happen. We made the choice to make it count."

Seconds later, Julia and Harry came hurrying through the kitchen door, with the now open bottle of champagne and four glasses between them. Harry poured and handed each of them a glass.

"Well, we haven't got time for big speeches," he said, "but let me be the first to say, to Julia and Thomas, a very happy first anniversary. Here's to this and many more."

"Happy first anniversary," Rose echoed. "Here's to many, many years of happiness … and making each and every moment count."

As Rose, Harry and Julia raised their glasses, Rose's eyes met Thomas's and he smiled.

"To making it count," he said, raising his own. "Always."


End file.
